


Good Eggs

by worstcommander



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: 5+1 Things, Background Shepard/Alenko, Hangover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 14:46:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11808144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worstcommander/pseuds/worstcommander
Summary: Five times James Vega made breakfast (and one time he didn't.)





	Good Eggs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [commanderlurker (honeybee592)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybee592/gifts).



"Do you think," said Robert, "that this means we're getting old?"

Steve didn't even have the energy to move his arm from his face. The shades were down, barely any light seeping through, and it was still too bright. Deep space might be too bright at the moment.

"I think," he replied- well, tried to reply. His throat was too dry for anything other than a hoarse croak. He cleared it, wetting his cracked lips with a fuzzy tongue.

"I think this means we might be dead."

Robert snorted, but said no more. Steve burrowed down further in the blankets of their bed, willing himself back into a few hours' rest.

Shots, that's what he was too old for. Still not quite sure how he and Robert got talked into shots at the bar last night, but it had a lot to do with that marine, the one who was almost too large to be real. Friendly guy, but flight crew had one rule, and that rule was "don't drink with marines" for a reason. What was his name?

Bad decisions, that's what his name was.

Steve had almost drifted back to sleep when the door chimed.

"Fuck."

"I'll get it." Robert. His hero. The bed shifted as his husband climbed out, the footsteps crossing their tiny bedroom out into the rest of the prefab that served as their own little house on base. The sounds of muffled conversation drifted through, polite tones and the front door sliding shut again. More footsteps.

Then the smell. Something heavenly, cutting through the nausea to make his stomach rumble.

"Guess we made a friend."

Robert stood in the doorway, a bulging bag in hand, the source of that delicious smell.

"What is that?" Steve sat up, a bit too quick for his aching head. He tried it again, slower this time.

" _That_ was Vega." Robert waited for recognition, but Steve had nothing. "Big guy? From the bar last night? Kept calling you Esteban? _This_ is breakfast. Says he's sorry for that last round."

They eat in bed that morning, plastic food containers scattered across the covers. Vega had nothing to be sorry for, but Steve was happy to accept his apology, all the same.

* * *

Steve was up early. He was always up early, these days, the stillness of his empty quarters weighing on mostly sleepless nights. He'd given up trying to stare a hole through the ceiling before the sun even rose and walked down to the housing tower's cafeteria, hoping to get in a few hours of work before the official start of his shift. Now he picked through the pile of requisitions datapads on the table in front of him, forgetting each line even as he read it. Defeated, he scrubbed a hand over his tired eyes.

"Hey. This seat taken?"

Steve looked up. Kept looking up, because the guy on the opposite end of his table didn't end where most people did.

Vega. He'd known his old acquaintance was working at Vancouver HQ, even seen him around a few times, but he hadn't made an effort to get in touch. James Vega was a reminder of everything he was trying his hardest to forget right now.

A big reminder. The man made an ordinary chair look tiny as he plopped two trays down without asking, nudging aside the datapads without second glance.

"This food, right?" James shoveled a spoonful of reconstituted eggs into his mouth, barely pausing to chew before the next one followed. "You'd think it would be better at HQ. All these bigwigs running around."

Steve made a noise, something non-committal. Hoping he'd take the hint.

"But no, I get the exact same grub as Co-" James caught himself in time, cleared his throat awkwardly. He didn't have to say Shepard's name. It was an open secret. Everyone knew the infamous officer was in detention here, and James wasn't exactly a subtle guard. A subtle anything.

"I'm not hungry."

"Oh, you thought this was for you?" James grinned, sweeping his hand expansively over the now crowded tabletop. A lone datapad teetered at the edge, but didn't fall. "Nah, this is just my breakfast. Get your own, Esteban."

The familiar lump rose in his throat, sour and choking, but he found himself smiling back.

"Sure you haven't had enough already? Looking a little soft around the middle there, Mr. Vega."

Found himself smiling a little wider as James sputtered in friendly outrage, and put aside his datapad to pick up a fork. Plenty of time for work later.

* * *

He was hungover. Good kind, though, very considerate, the kind that politely excused itself when faced with a strong cup of coffee. Just a little reminder of the night before. Hangover or no, Steve felt better than he had in months.

A month ago, that thought alone would have sunk him, pulling him down into a familiar spiral of guilt and grief. He could feel it still, that grief. Always would.

And that was okay. Robert was a part of his life, one of the best parts, and he always would be. He loved him. Loved the way he felt like home, no matter the posting.

Always would.

The Normandy was home, too. Mornings had their own rhythms. Crew coming off one shift, getting ready for the next. Dr. Chakwas with her mug of tea, Sam and that embedded reporter having a lively debate at one end of the bench about… shower gel? that he was sure would soon spill into his "special requisitions" inbox. Shepard and Major Alenko, heads bowed together in private conversation. Something serious, by their lack of distance. Spectre business, probably. Slightly-but not entirely-less likely to end up in his inbox.

James Vega, two plates piled high with something that smelled like heaven, headed his way on a direct course.

"Saved you a plate. Know it's your favorite." James smiled, a hint of conspiracy in his light tone. "Good night?"

Yeah, it had been. After Shepard had left him at the bar for more pressing appointments on the Presidium, he'd finished his drink, squared his shoulders, and headed out onto the dance floor, determined to stop just watching. Gotten swept up in the crowd, in the press of bodies. Pressed a few of his own, sweat and hard muscle and the thrum of the bass. Left while things were still fun, a few numbers in his omnitool he had no intention of ever calling.

 _Good night_ , he asked, like Steve wouldn't remember one particular body pressed against his on the dance floor more than once, two muscled, tattooed arms wrapped around his waist. An enthusiastic grind, a throaty laugh in his ear.

"Yeah. Good night."

 _Don't let me be an anchor._ This morning, feeling lighter than he had in a long time, Steve thought he might finally understand what Robert meant.

Great night.

* * *

If he stared at the fireplace in front of him long enough, Steve was pretty sure the world would stop spinning around it. If he just stayed perfectly still, kept his breathing steady through the nose and avoided the word "hangover" (even thinking the word made him queasy,) he'd be fine.

"Hey, Esteban. Eggs."

All those tequila shots with James hadn't prepared him for last night, that much of what he'd told Shepard was true. But all that time down alone in the Shuttle Bay with the illustrious Mr. Vega hadn't prepared him for last night, either, and the thought of what would come next had him swallowing heavy a few times.

"Not sure I'm up for food right now, James."

James shrugged, setting down his plate and settling close to him on the couch instead, throwing off Steve's precarious equilibrium as the cushions dipped beneath his weight. Too close. Close enough that his own weight shifted, pressing him against James' broad side. He closed his eyes.

"So, we going to talk about it?" James' words were low, quiet - meant for him only, not that anyone else in the sprawling apartment was likely to hear them.

Regret wasn't just for tequila. Regret did taste a bit like tequila, salt and sharp, but it had tasted like other things when he kissed it off James' lips last night. When he'd run his tongue down the tattoos on his thick neck, practically pulling him off of his feet to reach them. Regret was the way James had played along, pressing him hard against the cold metal of the wall panel and letting him kiss him. 

Then let him down easy, slipping an arm around his waist, one of those ridiculously large hands rubbing circles over his ribs while he told him, _not tonight_ in the same private voice he used now.

"Look, I'm sorry for what happened last night. I just… could we never mention it again?"

"We could," James said, the shrug of his broad shoulders jostling Steve unpleasantly again as they rose and fell. "Shame to waste all that time I spent trying to seduce you, though."

The room stopped spinning.

"What? We were so drunk we could barely stand up, I wasn't going to do anything. Wanted to make sure you'd remember it." He waggled his eyebrows. "Because the way I do it is something to _remember_."

That line shouldn't have worked on him. Nothing about the man next to him should have worked on him, and it wasn't career worries, it wasn't frat regs (after all, it definitely wasn't coffee putting that spring in Major Alenko's step that morning.) 

But, if he were being honest, there was a part of himself that didn't feel at home in an empty shuttle bay anymore. A piece that didn't welcome the silence, that missed the banter and casual flirtation when James was occupied off-ship, as much as he rolled his eyes at each easy shot.

The part that couldn't rest until James was back in his shuttle after a mission, safe and sound.

"Something to remember, huh?" Steve could see his face waver, the overconfident mask slipping for a bare moment. "Guess that means you're buying dinner."

"Start with breakfast, Esteban," James said, pushing the plate toward him. "We'll figure the rest out."

* * *

"Shit!"

Surprised by the unexpected spark from the open panel, Steve dropped his wrench. It clattered to the shuttle bay floor, falling through the safety grate and into the pit. He didn't even pretend to make an effort to retrieve it, just sunk to the floor and thumped his head back against the hull of the Kodiak, once, twice.

He was tired. Tired and hungry and sweaty, after three months at FTL with no relay in sight. Everything non-essential had been powered down; life support levels at minimum operation for survival, not comfort, ration paste replacing meals in the crew mess. The water recycling system was reserved for drinking water and their fledgling attempts at hydroponics, which meant sanitation wipe showers for everyone and a level of persistent grime he'd started ignoring weeks ago. Just for one bare moment, it welled up inside of him, black and overwhelming, and he wondered what it would be like to not get up at all.

The grief. When Robert died, he'd felt alone, transferred quickly back to Earth and surrounded by people who didn't understand, who _couldn't_ , because they hadn't just lost the most important person in the universe.

Now he was on a ship, stranded in the black, and everyone aboard shared his grief. 

It didn't make it any easier.

Kaidan haunted the corridors, a pale, black-eyed ghost, and the rest of them weren't much better. Shepard had driven them forward for so long, given them a purpose they'd only truly understood when it was gone. In the dim glow of emergency lighting, bellies rumbling and lack of sleep chasing at the edges, it was hard to understand why they were trying so hard to go on.

James announced himself with heavy feet on the rungs of the ladder that connected Engineering and the shuttle bay - power to run the lifts hadn't been available since their last landing, leaving only the emergency access corridors between decks.

"Hey." He waved two plastic tubes in his hand, the day's first rations. Steve had missed roll call, it seemed. Again.

Steve nodded, incapable of speech. James settled down beside him, shoulder against his own.

He was halfway through sucking down the gray nutrient paste when he realized James was crying. Not a sound, just a weight, a shuddering that transferred through him. James had his head buried in the crook of his shoulder, shaking in silent sobs.

Grief shared wasn't grief eased. Still, he carefully set down his ration, wrapped both arms around the man next to him. 

Love might not last forever, he knew that better than anyone, but when you had love, every minute was worth being there for, was worth living for.

Even without showers.

* * *

He wakes in warmth and weight. Sheets tangle around his waist and one arm lies heavy over his hip, thick and muscled.

He'd welcomed James home last night at the shuttle terminal. And in the skycar.

And in the bed.

Complicated, deployments these days. He sends his heart outside his chest, on a troop transport speeding outside the Inner Rim. James sends his back, with patchy comm packets from Omega, from the Outer Reaches. There's gray at Steve's temples and a softness around his jaw. There's a gold ring around James' finger.

Steve spares his husband one last look - arms wrapped around his recently vacated pillow, mouth slack. Probably drooling.

Then he pads down the hallway, activating the coffee maker as he goes.


End file.
